


Hold Tight

by KMDWriterGrl



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode: s02e01 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen: Part 1, Episode: s02e02 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen: Part 2, F/M, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5823943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMDWriterGrl/pseuds/KMDWriterGrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the shooting at Rosslyn, CJ, Toby, Danny and the rest of the West Wing staff have to cope with the injuries, the terror, and the panic left in its wake. CJ-centric. A post-ep for "What Kind of Day Has It Been" and the "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" two-parter.</p><p>This fic is followed by a sequel: “Unsteady.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I took some dramatic license here and gave CJ more severe injuries than she had on the show; I did this largely to focus on what happens to the mindset of participants in a tragedy and to show the terror and confusion that comes with a head injury.

With the sound of gunshots making her ears ring, CJ struggled up from the ground, her arms stinging from gravel and glass. The world was heaving in four different directions at once. She put a hand to her head and felt an alarming gush of blood down the side of her face.

“CJ!”

Someone was calling her name but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. There was screaming in every direction and she wasn’t entirely sure that some of it wasn’t coming from her own throat.

“CJ!”

Her name again, louder, and then someone was grabbing her upper arms. She flinched back, then relaxed incrementally when she realized it was Toby.

“CJ, are you all right?”

“What?” She shook her head and felt more warm blood snake its way down her cheek.

“Are. You. Okay?” He took her face in his hands, cursed when he noticed the blood. “Are you hit? Where are you hurt?” His hands slid into her hair, feeling frantically for injuries.

“No, I hit my head. On the ground.”

She was aware of tears on her cheeks, blood on her face. She raised her hand to her temple where the sharpest pain had bloomed and touched a gash. There were bits of glass in her hair and she started to warn Toby of them but couldn’t find her voice.

“Can you walk?”

Why the hell was she having so much trouble focusing? Everything that came out of Toby’s mouth sounded like it was on a time delay. For that matter her brain felt like it was on one, too. What had he asked? Where were Sam and Josh?

“CJ, CAN YOU WALK?” Toby asked insistently. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

“I’m not sure,” she replied vaguely. She got to her knees, then to her feet, swaying a bit but upright. Toby held onto her arm firmly. His fingers were tipped in blood.

“You’re—are you okay?” she stumbled out, feeling ridiculously disconnected. Was this shock?

“I hit the deck,” he replied. “As soon as I heard the shots. I still need to know if I should carry you to an ambulance.”

She took some measured steps, her legs shaking.

“Hold tight to me,” Toby instructed, sliding an arm around her waist. “I’m not going to let you fall.”

Walking wasn’t going to happen for another minute or two. She motioned that she needed to stop and leaned against the hood of a squad car, putting a hand to her head.

“Is the President dead?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“No. They got him in the car.”

“Sam? Josh? Leo?”

“Shanahan got Leo in a car. Sam’s fine … he’s looking for Josh.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it against her temple. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah … I—hit my head.” Hadn’t she already said that? Damn, what was WRONG with her brain?

“Okay,” he said decisively. “I want you in an ambulance. Let’s go.”

Toby got an arm around her waist again and took charge of their direction, steering her unresisting toward the open back doors of an ambulance.

“Can you check her head, please?” Toby called to one of the medics. He helped her up into the back of the ambulance and onto a gurney, where a harried-looking medic immediately pulled away Toby’s handkerchief to get a look at her head.

“Scalp laceration, right temple,” he reported. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“CJ Cregg,” she replied faintly, her eyes traveling to Toby’s.

“CJ, can you hear me and see me okay?” the medic asked, using peroxide to clean the wound.

“Yes, I can hear you,” she said. “My ears are kind of ringing though.”

“Tinnitus. We’re getting a lot of that. It should pass shortly. Any tunnel vision or dizziness?”

“Dizziness,” she replied, closing her eyes as the world swam. “I hit my head on the ground.”

“How did you hit it?”

“Someone pushed me down,” CJ remembered. “Someone got me on the ground and the car window exploded over my head.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“Maybe for a minute. I’m not sure.”

“Any nausea or vomiting?”

“No.”

“Weakness in your arms and legs?”

“Why are you asking me so many questions?” she asked, a little frightened.

“I’m trying to determine whether or not you have a concussion, ma’am,” the medic explained. “Any weakness in your arms and legs?”

“My legs feel rubbery.”

The paramedic ran his hands carefully over her scalp.

“Multiple scalp lacerations, mostly minor,” the medic reported. “They shouldn’t require stitches. Let’s get some steri-strips on your temple, though. Based on your physical symptoms, I’d recommend an MRI to check for concussion.”

“I’ll make sure she gets one,” Toby said, holding up a hand to stave off her protestations.

“Okay, Ms. Cregg, give this to the admitting nurse at GW and they’ll set you up.” He quickly scribbled orders on a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

Toby helped her out of the ambulance and steered her toward a group of Secret Service agents. Her mind was wandering so far afield that she barely noticed when an agent she vaguely recognized took hold of her arm and steered her none-too-gently toward a waiting car.

“Stop,” she snapped out, finally gathering herself enough to realize that she didn’t want to be handled. She looked around for Toby and found him talking to Gina Toscano. “If I’m going, Toby’s coming too.”

“Ms. Cregg, my orders are to get you to GW,” the agent said crisply.

“Look, I’m not going anywhere--” she started defensively, then changed her tactic. “I’m not comfortable unless he’s checked out too. Can you please tell him that?”

The agent unbent a little. “Wait here.”

He came back, Toby beside him, and opened the car door for her, clearly eager to clear them from the scene. Her bluff called, CJ had no choice but to slide into the car. Toby climbed in after her, casting a final anxious glance at the sea of red and blue lights behind them as the car pulled away.

***

She had always hated hospitals; it was the smell that got to her every time. When she stepped through the doors at GW, it was all she could do not to backpedal and head straight to the waiting car. She likely would have if Toby hadn’t been with her … and if she didn’t know that the Secret Service agent outside would steer her right back in again.

The ward was blaring with activity, so loud, so busy, that her head increased its throbbing. She laid a hand on her temple and winced, a gesture that Toby caught. He took the orders for an MRI scan from her unresisting fingers and handed them to the nurse at the check-in desk.

“Were y’all at Rosslyn, too?” she asked, quickly entering the information into the computer in front of her.

“Yes,” Toby replied shortly.

“Y’all know if the President’s okay?”

“We don’t know anything yet,” Toby replied, even more shortly if such a thing was possible.

“Y’all know if they caught the man doing the shooting?”

“As I said, we don’t know anything yet.”

“Well, do y’all know …” She stopped her next question at the look on Toby’s face and said, “Just need your insurance card, ma’am.”

“My purse … I don’t …” CJ cursed inwardly. Why the hell couldn’t she form a coherent sentence? And where WAS her purse? Her phone? Her keys? Still in the motorcade?

“We can get you the information later,” Toby said.

“Sir, without insurance information …”

“You’re obligated to treat her whether she has insurance or not … which she does … it’s just not readily available right now. Her card is in her wallet, which is in her purse, which is in the motorcade along with heavily armed Secret Service agents,” Toby said. “Now can you please get her in for an MRI to check her for a concussion and then get her some painkillers?”

The nurse nodded briskly. “Just one moment. Go ahead and have a seat.”

Although the seats in the town car had been much more comfortable, the hard hospital chairs still felt like heaven to CJ. She leaned her aching head back against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the noise.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to sleep if you have a head injury,” Toby said from next to her.

“There’s no chance of me sleeping,” she said. “I just want everything to stop being so loud and bright.”

Toby’s voice was concerned. “Do you want some water?”

“I want everyone and everything to shut up for five minutes,” she snapped, before wincing at the ferocity of her tone. “Sorry. Yes. Water would be great.”

His footsteps faded down the hallway. She took one deep breath, then another, trying to focus. She was going to need to brief everyone. How she was going to do that when she could barely get out a coherent sentence, she had no idea. But they’d need her to be on her A-game.

She mentally ran down the roster of reporters, making notes as to who was likely to ask what. If she could anticipate questions, she could start building answers.

Katie would ask about protection procedures. No problem. She’d tell them the Secret Service didn’t comment on those and refer her to Treasury.

Tom would be the first to ask about the shooter. Or was it shooters? Had there been more than one? Where had all the gunfire come from? Was it from the buildings on either side of the parking lot or was it from the top floor of the museum itself?

Dammit, she doesn’t know. She hadn’t been paying attention. But why should she have been? Why would any of them have been paying attention to anything other than the success of the event as they walked out into the clear night air? There had been no discussion of threats. They hadn’t been diverted from their original entry and exit plan; if there was ever a threat or even a hint of a threat that was always the first thing that changed. No, everything had gone smoothly that evening. This was an ambush, plain and simple, gunmen who had thwarted PPD or who had never made it onto their radar in the first place.

She still doesn’t know how to answer Tom’s likely question … how many shooters? ‘I don’t know’ isn’t an answer … after all, she was there. But she truly doesn’t know--not who pushed her to the ground, not who shielded her as the bullets flew. She’s not an ideal eyewitness. She’s not any kind of eyewitness at all, not with her ears still ringing and her head muzzy.

She groaned and rested her head back against the wall.

“Hey.” Toby was back. He sat next to her and pressed a cold bottle of water into her hands. “Here you go.” She heard him shift position in his chair and then felt something cold settle on the side of her temple. She sucked a breath in through her teeth, more from surprise than pain, and raised her hand, encountering a small bag of ice.

“The nurse said this should help the swelling. It’ll be a little bit before they can get you back there.”

“Can I get some Advil or something?”

“Not just yet. They need a measure of how much pain you’re in for their records before they can give you anything.”

“I’m in ‘give me some goddam Advil before I start wringing people’s necks’ pain,” she muttered, taking the ice pack from him.

His phone rang and he touched her arm before standing up to answer the call. When he came back moments later he was ashen faced.

“They’re bringing Josh in by ambulance. He was hit. The bullet collapsed his lung.”

Everything else was forgotten the moment the gurney wheeling Josh came hurtling through the emergency room doors. She and Toby dashed to his side, joining Sam, several Secret Service agents, and a phalanx of doctors and nurses as they raced the cart down the hall to an operating room.

It was frantic, chaotic, nothing so much as a wild rush of noise—the wheels clacking on the tiles, doctors shouting orders, Josh mumbling semi-consciously about having to make a meeting before his head lolled and his chest began to heave alarmingly. It felt as if they were with him for seconds only before the doctors and orderlies waved them back and the swinging doors closed between them and the OR, cutting the noise, leaving them all standing there, shell-shocked.

“Jesus,” Toby breathed, his eyes wide and horrified. He rounded on Sam. “What the hell happened? Where was he? Did you find him?”

“Yeah, I … I was looking for him while you looked for CJ and he …” Sam came to a stuttering halt. “Donna. Someone has to call Donna. And Mrs. Landingham. Where’s Charlie? Leo? Oh my god.” Sam ran his hand over his face in a gesture that spoke of being completely overwhelmed. “Okay. I’ll call Donna. CJ, call Mrs. Landingham. Toby, find out where Leo is.”

“Leo McGarry?” one of the remaining Secret Service agents asked. “He’s in with the President.”

“The President’s here?” CJ asked. She shot a glance at Toby and Sam, who both looked as bewildered as she felt. “We thought they got him into a motorcade headed for the residence! What happened? Is he okay?”

“He was shot through the abdomen.”

CJ had to grab on to both men as her legs threatened to buckle.

Oh god. What kind of day had it been?

***

They gathered in the waiting room that had been cordoned off especially for the West Wing staff. Secret Service was outside. CJ, Toby, Sam, Donna, Charlie, Zoey Bartlet, and Abby Bartlet, were all gathered, awaiting word on their wounded loved ones. Leo had gone back to the White House. Mrs. Landingham and all the assistants were still there, running the ship.

When word came relatively quickly that the President was out of surgery, out of danger, and out from under anesthesia, the tension level dropped significantly. But it climbed back up the longer they had to wait for Josh, ratcheting to brutal levels.

CJ refused an MRI, even after Abby Bartlet’s insistence. With Josh’s condition, she might need to come back to the waiting area at a moment’s notice … no way did she want to be stuck inside a humming piece of machinery. She took Advil instead—too much Advil, judging by the sour state of her stomach—and allowed steri-strips to be applied to the gash on her temple until it was time to go back to the White House to give the briefings, at which point she took them off and did her best to cover the gash with make-up.

The press corps was subdued. No one seemed to know how to act. The last assassination attempt on a sitting president had been with Reagan—only a few of the most senior reporters had actually covered that. Everyone else was young enough to remember it, though not necessarily how it had been handled. The etiquette for post-assassination questions and coverage was something they were all feeling their way around, some more successfully than others. President Bartlett was popular enough that many of them were experiencing the turbulent emotions that came with seeing a beloved figurehead cut down by violence. Josh, too, was a favorite, despite his occasional bluster and blunders. His condition was a cause for serious concern among everyone crowded into the briefing room. CJ’s obvious injuries were making the press uneasy too … no one seemed to know how to address the fact that she was reporting on the story she was a part of.

She did the best she could … in the first briefing she reported the straight facts of what happened at Rosslyn; in the second she discussed the suspects, the weapons used, the eyewitness reports, and the medical conditions of all of the victims, including people in the rope line. At the third briefing she started fielding questions about protection procedures, about who was running the country with the president under anesthesia, about her own experience at Rosslyn and about her injuries, which she downplayed as much as she could.

She didn’t fool anyone, of course. Danny Concannon looked particularly alarmed when he saw her up close, his eyes lingering on her scratched face and bruised neck as he questioned her again and again about who was in charge of the country. Her head hurt too much for her to be anything other than unnecessarily short with him; as ever, though, he let it roll off of his back. Danny was dependable that way—nothing fazed him. Instead of taking offense at her tone, he simply squeezed her hand and murmured “I’ll check on you later” before disappearing back into the press room.

Minutes stretched into hours with no word from the hospital about Josh. She checked her phone again and again, making sure the ringer was on and the battery charged, terrified she might have missed a call. Never mind that there were phones all over the building with which anyone could reach her … she kept her phone in her pocket, switching it to vibrate only for briefings, turning it back to ring again immediately after she stepped away from the cameras.

She was reeling by the time she received word 3 agonizing hours later that Josh was out of surgery and in recovery. Carol passed on the news with tears streaming down her face. CJ pulled her assistant to her for a brief hard hug, then ordered her to take a break to get some coffee and something to eat—poor Carol had been on duty longer than she had any right to be. Carol, Ginger, and Bonnie, all looking worse for the wear, disappeared downstairs in the direction of the Mess, arms linked in solidarity.

The bullpen was relatively quiet—most everyone was either at the hospital, in the Mess, or at home. CJ sank down on the couch in her office, her aching head in her hands, fighting the urge to break into sobs of relief. It was at that moment, of course, when Toby came in, looking for her.

“Did you hear?”

When she could only nod without speaking, he closed the door and sat down next to her.

“Are you okay?” When she didn’t answer he murmured, “Sorry; that was a ridiculous question.” He laid a hand on her tense, shaking back. “It’s okay. Just take a deep breath.”

She didn’t want to; a deep breath would mean letting out all the terror and pain and, yes, relief in wracking sobs.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “I locked the door.” He laid a warm hand on the back of her neck and squeezed gently. “CJ, breathe.”

She did and the tears came, though she tried to knuckle them away as they fell. She cried quietly, even though there was silence in the bullpen outside; she didn’t want anyone but him to know that she’d allowed herself this torrential rush of emotion.

“Let it happen,” he murmured. “It helps.” He kept his hand on the back of her neck, stroking his thumb up to the base of her skull and down again.

“I can’t,” she said through sobs, trying to seize her emotional control. “I can’t, I’ve got to go back out there. I can’t go on camera with red eyes.”

“Then wait a little bit. There’s nothing new to report right now. Give yourself some time and then do one more. Then that’s it. We can go to the hospital to see Josh together.”

“Okay, yeah.” She wiped her eyes. Toby rose to grab the box of tissues from her desk and offered them to her. “I’d like that.”

“That’s what we’ll do then.” His voice was soft, much less abrasive with her than it ever was with anyone else. “Just sit here with me for a few minutes. We’ll go over the latest for this final briefing.”

“I’m having--” She had to stop and take a controlled breath. “I’m having a hard time with the eyewitness questions, Toby.”

“Such as?”

“The ones about what I saw and heard. Because I can’t be sure of what I saw and heard. I don’t know how many shots there were and I don’t know where they came from. I don’t know who pushed me onto the ground or what happened to my necklace.” She touched the scratches on her neck where her gold chain had been—apparently it had broken when her unknown savior pushed her to safety. “I feel as though I’m withholding information if I don’t answer but lying if I do.”

“I don’t think anyone who was there is sure of what happened,” Toby said. “I couldn’t tell you how many shots or where they came from. I have no idea how I got from where I was next to Josh to suddenly behind the town car … I don’t remember running for it. I think that’s the nature of traumatic events … we aren’t meant to remember them lucidly.”

“What if, when I hit my head …”

Toby understood her thought before she could finish it. “I think that head of yours is more than hard enough to keep from scrambling your brains, CJ,” he said with a sardonic smile.

“Football players wear helmets and they get concussions all the time,” she said shortly, disliking the way he was downplaying her concern.

Toby heard the displeasure in her voice and checked his tone. “Do you think you have a concussion?”

“I don’t know … I mean … I’m not sure what one feels like. I’m just … I can’t seem to say anything clearly. I can’t get my thoughts sorted out.”

“I’m not an expert but I’m pretty sure that’s normal after a traumatic event. But if you’re that worried, we’ll get you an MRI as soon as we get back to the hospital.”

CJ sank back against the sofa and sighed. “I know you’re right. It’s much more likely that I’m having a psychological reaction than a physical one. But I …” She pursed her lips as she thought about what she wanted to say. “I see my father losing his memories, his cognitive processes, to this illness, Toby, and it scares the hell out of me. This man who was so quick and clever is more often than not fading in and out like a TV with bad reception. Since I hit my head all I keep thinking is ‘I wonder if this is what it feels like?’ I’m having a hard time getting my thoughts together coherently … my brain doesn’t seem to want to make connections. I feel like everything I say and do is on a time delay. I’m reaching for words that I’d normally find with no trouble.”

“That’s shock and fatigue, Claudia, not necessarily brain trauma,” Toby said gently, invoking his prerogative to use her first name, something he only did when he wanted her to take whatever he was saying seriously. “It’s been an incredibly long and stressful day; we’re all suffering from it.” He considered his words carefully. “I can understand, though, why it would make you think of your dad and how that could make a really difficult day even worse.”

CJ blew out a slow breath. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about my dad right now; I should be thinking about Josh. And the President. And all those injured people. And--”

“I don’t think there’s a rule book,” Toby said, sounding slightly amused. “Take it as it comes.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” she asked.

“What’s the alternative? Running around screaming?” He touched her hand. “We’re going to go back to the hospital. I’ll sit with you while you have an MRI. If you DO have a concussion, we’ll get you taken care of. If not, I’ll make sure that everyone knows your head is much harder than we originally suspected and that they should feel free to throw heavy objects at you when they’re stressed.”

The humor, feeble as it was, rendered her noticeably less tense; her shoulders unclenched and her spine lost its ramrod straightness. Attempting to help the process along, Toby brought his hand to the back of her neck and squeezed, helping her relax by degrees.

“Anything else worrying you?”

She laughed shakily. “Danny keeps asking about who’s in charge of the country.”

“I took care of him.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Sent him to Leo.”

“I’m sure Leo was thrilled.”

“Leo can handle Danny. They’ve got a mutual understanding.” Toby raised an eyebrow. “I expected Danny to be here, actually, seeing as how you two also seem to have a mutual understanding.”

“Stop. We have no such thing. We had two business dinners, drinks …”

“…And joint custody of a goldfish.” He looked at Gail swimming placidly in her bowl.

“Don’t tease me about Danny,” she said tiredly. “I can barely handle it when I don’t have a head injury.” The banter, though, had helped her get herself fully under control again. She gave Toby a small smile. “I see what you did there.”

“Use some eye drops, drink some more water, and come find me in about 20 minutes, okay? I’ll walk you to the briefing room.”

She followed his advice … the Visine she kept in her desk drawer made it look as though she hadn’t been crying in her office with her best friend. She got a Coke out of the vending machine and swallowed it down; the caffeine and sugar would almost certainly make her jittery later, but it was the only way she could keep herself going through the hours at the hospital that were sure to follow. She pondered grabbing something to eat but decided that ultimately her stomach simply couldn’t handle food.

20 minutes later she was at Toby’s door, as ready as she could be.

“Just offer a quick update on Josh and the President. Stick to the facts. If someone asks what you remember, reply that you’d rather not comment until all of the investigative details have been confirmed and move on.”

“They were asking about my injuries last time.”

“Address them matter-of-factly, then say you’d rather not comment further. That’s your right. You don’t have to tell them that you’re worried your brain is permanently scrambled.” He gave her a teasing smile and then sobered. “I’ll be right in the doorway.”

“You don’t have to stay, you know. I’m a big girl.”

“I know. I’ll still be right in the doorway.”

*

It felt like the most grueling ten minutes of CJ’s life. The worst question—more of a comment than a question—came from an AP reporter who seemed to enjoy making her life miserable; he asked for her response to the network news anchors who were describing her as looking shaken and rattled.

“Well,” she replied. “Shaken and rattled. I guess if you add rolled to it I’m a hit song from 1955.”

The laughter that generated allowed her to turn to a final question from Danny who, mercifully, threw her a softball, asking about the medical status of several of the injured bystanders, something she’d already answered in a previous briefing but was happy to repeat again with updated information.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s a full lid for today,” she said in closing. “Any further questions on the investigation can be directed to the FBI, questions on protection procedures can be directed to Treasury, and inquiries about the medical status of victims can be directed to GW Memorial Hospital. Thank you.”

CJ stepped away from the podium amid shouts for more answers and headed for the exit where Toby, true to his word, was waiting with Carol, who handed CJ her coat and shoulder bag.

“Thank you, Carol,” she said gratefully. “Head home now, okay? We’re done here for a while.”

“Are you sure? I can stay.”

“No, you’ve done more than enough. We’re all going to be at the hospital with Josh. It’ll be a ghost town around here.”

Carol took off for the bull pen, clearly ready to get the hell out of Dodge. Danny fell in step with Toby and CJ as they headed for the North Portico where one of the town cars would take them to GW.

“How’s Josh?” he asked.

“Off the record?” Toby asked. At Danny’s nod he replied, “He’s hanging on.”

“Did the doctors have to re-inflate his lung?”

“That’s what I heard, yeah.”

“Any word on when he might be conscious again?”

“Leo said he hadn’t woken up yet but that’s the result of the anesthesia. They kept him under for a pretty long time to get the bullet out.”

“Jesus.” Danny shook his head. “Poor Josh.”

“You wanna come along?” Toby asked. “Off the record, obviously.”

“Yeah, I would,” Danny said, looking startled but pleased. “Thanks. I just need to grab my things.”

“We’ll wait.”

Danny hurried off.

CJ turned to Toby. “Are you serious?”

“What? It’s Danny.”

“I know, it’s just …” CJ sighed deeply.

Toby peered at her worriedly. “It’s just what?”

CJ dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s easier when it’s just us--” She gestured between the two of them. “—because I don’t have to pretend with you.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t have to pretend with Danny either. He knows you aren’t perfect.”

“I don’t want him seeing what I wreck I am right now,” CJ admitted.

“You aren’t a wreck, CJ. If you’re anything at all, you’re a little unsteady … but I think Danny knows that all ready.”

“Okay,” Danny said, hurrying back over. “Are we good to go?”

Toby started out the door to the waiting town car. CJ followed, Danny behind her. CJ stumbled a bit on one of the rain-slick bricks and Danny caught her gently around the waist.

“Easy,” he cautioned. “Watch your footing.” He held her hand as she slid into the car, then followed her in.

“Don’t mind her,” Toby said, trying to keep a straight face. “She’s just a little unsteady.”

“Shut up,” CJ muttered at a smirking Toby.

*

The hospital wasn’t the mob scene it had been before, though they had to run the press gamut to get inside. The Secret Service agents held back the crowd of reporters as CJ, Danny, and Toby swept swiftly through them and into the lobby. They were immediately whisked to the security floor where the President and Josh were both recovering. The entire First Family was there, but in their own separate waiting room. Sam and Donna were congregated in another. A litter of coffee cups and soda bottles covered the coffee table in front of them. A package of M&Ms spilled its bright contents on a side table next to a box of tissues.

“We just saw you walk up,” Sam said, gesturing at CNN, which was covering nothing but the shooting and was providing constant footage of the hospital. “Bit of a surreal experience.”

“How’s Josh?” CJ asked, taking off her coat. “Any change?”

“He’s hanging in there. Not out of the woods but no deeper into them either.”

“Good to know.” Danny settled into a chair next to Donna and gave her a gentle hug around the shoulders. “Hey, you.”

“Hi,” Donna replied absently, staring up at the TV. “I just saw you up there. In the press room. It wasn’t even 15 minutes ago. You guys got here fast.”

“One of the joys of having a motorcade at your disposal.”

“Where’s Leo?” Toby asked.

“In with the President,” Sam said. “Who is, not at all surprisingly, already asking ‘what’s next?’” He took a good look at CJ, possibly for the first time since the shooting, and blanched. “Are you okay? Your head …”

“I know.”

“Don’t you think you ought to get stitches?”

“I absolutely do NOT need stitches. An MRI will be bad enough.”

“Speaking of,” Toby said, giving her a meaningful look. “Are you going to go and request one or do I have to force you?”

“Has anyone ever been able to force CJ to do anything she doesn’t want to do?” Danny asked. “I’d actually pay money to see that when it happens.”

“I’ll go,” CJ said. “No need to resort to force.”

They watched her cross to the nurse’s station and speak to the lead nurse, who nodded briskly and tapped some information into the computer. Looking resigned, CJ came back and sank down next to Sam.

“They’ll come and get me once a machine opens up.” Now that she didn’t have to be in front of a group of people all expecting her to have the answers, she let herself sink back against the cushions of the surprisingly comfortable couch and close her eyes.  

“I don’t think you should sleep if you have a head injury,” Sam said hesitantly, and since Toby had said the exact same thing only a few hours previously, CJ grinned faintly rather than scolding him for being overly protective.

“It’s adorable you think I could actually sleep right now.” She opened her eyes, winced at the fluorescent lights, and shut them again. “Anyone been in to see Josh?”

“You can walk down the hall and look in his room,” Donna said. “But no one can go in until the doctor says so.” She rose, her eyes brimming. “In fact, I think I’ll go check on him. If you guys don’t mind …”

“Go,” Sam urged her. “It’s fine.” He held out a tissue box to her as she walked past. She grabbed several and hurried down the hallway, her shoulders shaking.

“She’s having a hard time of it,” Sam said. “Clearly.”

“How are you doing with it?” Danny asked, scooping up some of the trash on the center of the table and chucking it piece by piece into the wastebasket.

“Off the record?” Sam asked.

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” Danny replied, half-amused, half-annoyed. He shot a soda bottle at the waste basket and it thumped off the rim with a loud bonk.

“I don’t want my thoughts about my best friend being shot winding up as a scoop on the Post’s front page,” Sam said in an ‘I sound like I’m joking but, really, I’m not’ tone.

“Fuck you, Sam,” Danny snapped, turning on the younger man. “When have you ever known me to capitalize on someone’s emotions to sell my paper? I report what’s news and leave the personal stuff out of it, even when it comes to the White House. So why are you treating me like some sleazy tabloid journalist?”

“You sold us all down the river with your story on that memo,” Sam retorted, shooting up from his chair and taking a step closer to Danny, “so forgive me for not wanting to give you any more ammo--”

“Hey!” Toby barked, stepping between the two. “Knock it off! Sam, I offered for Danny to come along; he’s here as a friend, not a reporter. And even if he wasn’t, he’s got a point … Danny’s never sold any of us out for a story. He’s got an actual set of working journalistic ethics, though I’m not entirely sure how he manages to have those and still be a success.”

Danny offered a twisted smile. “I made a pact with the Devil.” He tossed another soda bottle at the waste basket. “Don’t question my integrity again,” he warned, looking straight at Sam. “There are plenty of other guys aiming for my gig and they aren’t going to be so nice about it if I get fed up with all of this.”

“If the three of you don’t knock it off I’m going to bar all of you from the Press Room permanently,” CJ spat from her place on the couch, her aching head in her hands. “Let’s try some silence for a while and see how nice it is.”

Danny looked apologetic. “Sorry, CJ.” He sat on the edge of the sofa next to her. “I’m going to run downstairs for some coffee. What can I get you?”

“Oxycontin,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “And an ice pick to lobotomize myself with.”

“Okay. Hot tea it is. And a scone, since I’m betting you haven’t eaten today.”

“That sounds amazing. You can have my first born child as payment.”

Danny laughed. “Five bucks will cover it, I think.” He squeezed her shoulder gently and rose. He shot a glance at Toby and Sam. “You guys want coffee?”

“I’m with CJ on the ice pick,” Toby replied. “But coffee’s fine too.” He pulled a few bills out of his wallet. “Get the largest cup possible.”

“I’ve had enough,” Sam said shortly. “But Donna might want something. Get her whatever iced frothy thing with whipped cream they have. She likes those.”

“Iced frothy thing, a coffee to rule the world, headache-curing hot tea, and a bunch of baked goods,” Danny repeated. “Back shortly.”

Once he was on the elevator and headed downstairs, Sam sighed and came over to sit next to CJ.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” she said, wincing as she opened her eyes. “Why are you being a jerk to Danny?”

“Largely because I’m afraid my best friend is about to die,” Sam said, his voice very low. “And I’m trying to be strong for Donna because she’s not going to be able to handle it if he does. And I don’t have any way of expressing my anger and fear about this whole debacle, so I thought I’d try the misdirected rage thing. How’d I do?”

“Brilliantly.”

“You look like you’ve got a concussion.”

“I’m not going to ask how someone can _look_ like they have a concussion, but yes, I probably do. I hit my head on the ground.”

“I know.”

“Wait, how do you know? Did I say it during a press conference?” She gestured to the TV. “I swear, Sam, I don’t remember half of what I’ve said today.”

“No, I know because I’m the one who knocked you down.”

“What?” CJ jerked upright. “You what?”

“If you’ve got a concussion, it’s my fault,” Sam admitted. “I’m the one who knocked you over. When the shots started, I just … I panicked. It was instinct. We were right next to a police cruiser and I thought it would make a decent shield.” He bit his lip and shrugged. “I didn’t even yell for you to get down, I just tackled you to the ground. I’m really sorry, I should have been more careful.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out her gold necklace, the chain cleanly snapped.

“I didn’t even realize I’d somehow pulled this off your neck until later when it was in my hand.” His eyes darted to the scratches on her throat. “I’ll, um, I’ll pay to have it repaired.”

“Sam.” CJ’s eyes were bright with tears. “Don’t worry about it.” She pulled him into a very hard hug. “Thank you for knocking me down.”

A nurse came over just then. “Ms. Cregg? We can take you down for an MRI now.”

CJ pulled back from Sam and nodded. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and stood. “If Josh wakes up, come get me.”

“You’ll be in a big noisy tube,” Sam said, lips quirking up. “There won’t be much you can do.”

“All the same.” She glanced at Toby very quickly, wondering if he was planning to make good on his word that he’d go with her, and noted with a swell of gratitude that he was already on his feet and sliding his phone into his pocket.

“I’m going with her, Sam, just call me if anything changes.”

Toby walked a solicitous half step behind CJ all the way to the elevator, Sam noted and wondered for the hundredth time about the real nature of their relationship. He finally shrugged, yawned, rose to stretch, paced around the room, and settled back down to wait for something to change.

***

After an MRI (which was claustrophobia inducing, to say the least) and having her symptoms inventoried again (headache, sensitivity to light, nausea, dizziness, general muddle-headedness), the doctor diagnosed her with a grade 2 concussion.

“It’s not the most severe form of concussion,” he assured her when she asked, terrified, what that meant. “That’s a grade 3. But you’ll definitely need complete cognitive rest for a few days to clear it up.”

“What does that mean, cognitive rest?”

“It means reducing the number of activities that require intense attention and focus—prolonged reading, writing, advanced forms of computational math--which is why we recommend kids with concussions take time off from school. You’ll need to stay away from computer screens or anything with an intense light source for at least 48 hours. You need physical rest, too—sleeping is fine, contrary to popular belief. It invariably helps the brain heal.”

CJ quailed at the thought of having to be away from the press room, especially at such a critical time. “How long?” she asked, hoping to hear 24-48 hours.

“Seven to ten days at least. More if you’re still symptomatic. Your MRI doesn’t show any bleeding but a concussion actually bruises the brain. Your body needs that time to heal so you don’t develop issues down the road.” He looked at her appalled expression and smiled. “It’s the workaholics that hate hearing that the most. Trust me, Ms. Cregg, if you want this ‘eight-on-the-pain-scale’ headache to go away, you’ll need to rest. I’ll get a prescription for some painkillers and be right back.”

CJ turned to Toby, ready to campaign for a shorter period away from the White House, and was cut off at the knees when he spoke first. “Don’t even think about arguing. You heard the man. You need to rest.”

“Look, I can rest at work. I can!” she insisted at Toby’s incredulous expression. “I’ll stay in my office and dictate press releases to Carol. Or you guys. I don’t have to write or look at the computer screen. Someone can read the news of the day to me and we can work out how we want to go about releasing it.”

“Or you can assume we can survive without you for a week and stay home and rest.”

“You’re going to be shorthanded all ready with Josh out of commission!”

“And what do you want us to do if you injure myself permanently and YOU’RE out of commission?”

That gave her pause. “That’s not possible.”

Toby jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. “You want me to call him back in here? He said you need to do this now to prevent issues down the road. It’s a possibility. Or do we need to revisit that conversation we had in your office two hours ago in which you were distinctly worried about permanent brain damage?”

At her fraught expression, he immediately wished he’d been a bit more tactful about that point. “Sorry. It’s just … I’m not going to let you take a chance with your health. I’m just not. More to the point, Leo isn’t going to let you either. Neither is the President. And since any one of us can yank your clearance into the building, you might want to reconsider whether it’s a good idea to keep arguing the point.”

“I can’t stay at home all week and do nothing! I will lose my mind! What am I supposed to do?”

“Rest!” Toby said exasperatedly. “Sleep. Cook. Go for walks—short walks. Listen to audio books. Stare at the ceiling and contemplate the nature of the universe.”

With a frustrated groan, CJ dropped her head in her hands. “I’m not good at any of that.”

“Claudia…” Toby looked like he wanted to throttle her, but ultimately laid a hand on the side of her neck, his expression caught between exasperation and affection. “You’re not going to win this one.”

CJ sighed, and the quavering nature of it spoke of suppressed tears. “No, I guess I’m not. Can I call in and bug you guys?”

“If you don’t mind me abruptly hanging up on you to go put out fires,” he replied. “Seeing as I’m going to be understaffed for a week.”

The doctor came back in with a prescription for her. “There you are, Ms. Cregg. Seven to ten days of cognitive rest and you should be fine. If you’re still symptomatic after that, call your PCP and they’ll get you in for some more tests.”

CJ started to nod, stopped when it hurt her head, and said, softly, “Thank you” as the door shut behind him.

“Let’s see if we can get a glimpse of Josh before I take you home,” Toby said, giving her a hand off the exam table.

***

Donna was back out in the waiting room and Sam was the one down the hall with Josh. There were cups of coffee and various edibles from the Starbucks in the lobby on the coffee table. Donna was sipping an enormous Frappucino and nibbling at a piece of cranberry bread while Danny nursed a medium coffee. Danny looked up as they entered and gave CJ his trademark warm smile.

“How’s your head?”

“Concussed. Grade 2.”

“How many days of cognitive rest for that? 5 to 7?”

“7 to 10 … and how the hell do you know that? Did you minor in ‘Everything’ in college?”

“I did a series on concussions in athletes for the Post,” Danny reminded her. “You know, the one that won me the Mann Journalism Prize. You’d know that if you read my work more often but, hey, that’s all right, I don’t mind being underappreciated.”

He crossed to the microwave in the kitchen area, hit a button, and watched as it hummed to life.

“I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to pick on the person with the bruised brain,” CJ said archly, settling into a chair and reaching for a scone.

“I wasn’t aware there were rules,” Danny said mildly. He pulled two steaming cups out of the microwave and passed one to Toby before handing the other to CJ. “Hot tea. Decaffeinated.”

“Thank you, Danny,” she murmured, touching his hand.

“They give you an MRI?”

“Yes.”

“No bleeding?”

“Just light bruising.”

“Are you sure you don’t need stitches here?” He tapped his temple.

“I’m NOT getting stitches,” she said firmly. “It’s just not happening.”

“When are you planning on going home to rest?”

“Once I’ve seen Josh.”

“Let me take you home when you’re ready.”

“That’s sweet but wholly unnecessary. I’m fine.”

“I’m not letting you drive with a concussion,” Danny said sharply.

“If I promise to drive with my hands and not with my concussion will you stop fussing over me?” she asked wearily, dropping the half-finished scone back on the table.

Danny blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Look,” he said, low and intense, “I realize you don’t want to be coddled. I know it’s important that you’re strong. But did it ever occur to you that I might need to do this for you? It scared the hell out of me when I heard you were involved in the shooting. I really need to be able to do something to make sure you’re okay and it would help me a lot if you’d let me.”

CJ let the tense muscles in her face and neck relax. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d been so concerned.”

“ _Of course_ I was.” Danny took the chair next to hers and leaned in close so only she could hear. “You know how I feel about you. You can pretend you don’t feel the same way about me all you want—I’m pretty much used to that by now—but I need you to acknowledge that it’s there on my part, especially on a day like today.” He laid a hand on top of hers. “When I thought you might be hurt or dead, it felt like a hand grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed. It’s going to take me a little bit to get past that.”

“You are a dear, sweet man, Danny Concannon,” she murmured, turning her hand under his so she could clasp his fingers. “And the only way you’ll feel better is by driving me home?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Then you can definitely drive me home.”

Danny’s face relaxed. “Thank you.”

“Just let me see Josh.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

Josh had woken briefly, chatted with Donna and Sam, drank some water, and fallen back asleep while CJ had been getting her MRI. She and Toby both walked back to his room to see him, knowing full well he’d sleep for another few hours but wanting the reassurance of seeing his face.

Josh’s pallor was alarming, so much so that CJ gasped and took a step back from the bed, sure that he’d died in the few moments it took them to walk back into the room from the waiting area. Toby caught her shoulders.

“Easy,” he murmured. “He’s fine. Look.” He pointed at the monitor registering Josh’s vitals. Sure enough, there was his heartbeat, strong and steady.

“Jesus, I thought …” CJ shook her head, her heart beating hard. “He’s just so pale!”

“I know.” He squeezed her shoulders. “He’s in better shape than he looks. Sam talked to his doctors. He survived the surgery, which was the biggest hurdle. With every hour that passes his chances of recovery are better and better.”

“Okay.” CJ blew out a slow breath, leaning back against Toby as her heart rate started to come back to normal. “That’s good. That’s … really good.”

“You need to go home,” Toby said firmly. “You need painkillers and sleep.”

“You do too,” she countered.

“I know. I’ll leave as soon as Sam and Donna are settled. They’re going to stay here on the security floor tonight to be near Josh. The Bartlets insisted.”

“Good. I’m glad they’ll be here. Just in case.”

“Let Danny take you home, all right? He’s worried about you.”

“So I heard.”

“So am I.”

“I got that too.” She raised her hands to cover his and gave them a warm squeeze. “Thank you for sitting through that MRI with me.”

“Of course.”

CJ leaned over and gave the sleeping Josh a kiss on the cheek. “Come back to us,” she whispered in his ear. “We need you.”

***

As promised, she allowed Danny to drive her home. It was going on 4pm by the time they left the White House, having recovered CJ’s purse, keys, and cell phone from the motorcade. Her cell phone was jammed with missed calls and messages, both text and voicemail. It seemed as though everyone she had ever known had tried to get in contact with her since the 9pm shooting the previous night.

The phone rang as Danny was negotiating through the traffic at Dupont Circle. CJ quickly picked it up. DAD flashed on the screen.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Claudia Jean Cregg, how dare you forget to call your father?” Her father’s mild voice was unusually loud and aggravated. “I had to watch TV to see that you weren’t dead!”

“Dad, I’m so sorry, I--”

“Do you know how much you scared me, Claudia? I thought you’d been killed!”

“I know. I’m terribly sorry. I went right to the hospital and then back to the White House because I had to do the briefings--”

“Are you hurt? It said on TV you’d been injured.”

“I have a concussion and some cuts and bruises but I’m okay.”

“Did you call your mother and let her know you’re okay?”

Oh no. His dementia was kicking in. CJ had to tread carefully. “Dad, Mom’s not … around. You know that.”

“What? Of course she’s around! I talked to her yesterday!”

“No, you didn’t, Dad. You couldn’t have. Mom passed away when I was 16.”

“That’s ridiculous, Claudia, your mother was over here yesterday afternoon. We had lunch.”

CJ rubbed the back of her neck and blew out a slow breath. It was easier sometimes just to humor him. “Okay, well, I’ll make sure to call her.”

“You do that. I’m sure she’s worried about you. Are you able to come home?”

“No, I can’t. I’m … I can’t. I’d love to but I can’t get away right now. But in a few weeks I probably can.”

“That’s all right then. I know your job keeps you busy. But you come home soon, Claudia Jean. And take care of that head of yours! You have a first rate mind. I don’t want to see it scrambled.”

“Yes, sir,” she said softly.

“Do you want me to come there?” her father asked suddenly. “I will.”

“No, Daddy, I’m fine,” she said, suddenly on the verge of tears. “You stay where you are.”

“Have you got someone to check on you? You can’t be too careful with a concussion.”

“Yes, I have a friend who’s taking care of me.”

“Good girl. Is it that Tom fellow?”

Her college boyfriend. CJ tried not to sigh. “No, his name’s Danny.”

“Uh huh, and what does this Danny do?”

“He’s a reporter for the Post.”

“I see. You tell him to take care of my baby girl, understand?”

“I’ll tell him.” Tears pricked at her eyes again, both at her father’s loving concern and at his dreadful confusion. “Dad, I have to go. I need to pick up my painkillers.”

“All right, sweetheart, call me and check in tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered around a lump in her throat.

“I love you, Claudia Jean.”

“Love you too, Dad.” She hung up and turned her head quickly—too quickly—so she could stare out the window until she got her emotions under control.

Danny, thankfully, didn’t push her to talk. It wasn’t until they were inside her apartment that he finally said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“The part where my father is losing his mind or the part where I feel like I’m not terribly far from it myself?”

“Either. Or neither, if you want me to leave it alone. I can get your painkillers for you, make you something to eat, and we don’t have to talk about anything at all.”

CJ considered before finally replying, “I do need some painkillers. And I wouldn’t mind some soup.”

Danny’s smile told her she had given the right answer. “What sounds good? I’ll make you anything you like.”

“Broccoli and cheese soup is my favorite.”

“Good choice. I’ll be back.”

She showered the grime and blood out of her hair—a few shards of safety glass from the police cruiser’s window came loose in the shower, too. She applied Neosporin and a Band-Aid to the cut on her temple which, yeah, probably did need stitches. She put on a loose pair of yoga pants and a tank top, then wrapped a favorite shawl around her shoulders because she couldn’t seem to get warm. By the time Danny came back, she was lying on the couch, staring (as Toby had suggested) at the ceiling, trying not to think of her father.

“Lucky for you,” Danny announced as he came in the door, “there is a hidden jewel just up the street from the drug store. The Grilled Cheese Bistro. It’s like manna from heaven.” He pulled thick sandwiches and cartons of soup out of the bag and brought them to her dining room table. Seeing that she wasn’t moving from the couch, he came to kneel beside her. “CJ, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to end up like my dad,” she whispered.

“Is it Alzheimers?”

“Some type of dementia.”

“And you’re worried about inheriting it?”

“Now that I’ve gotten a taste of what it must feel like to be disoriented and forgetful, I am.”

“CJ,” Danny murmured tenderly, brushing her hair back from her face, “baby, that’s the last thing you need to worry about right now.”

“Well, I’m pretty exceptional at worrying,” she said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I feel so foggy, Danny.”

“Some of that is sleeplessness and shock,” he assured her. “Once you rest you’ll get a better picture of where you’re at mentally.”

“I shouldn’t have done the briefings,” she admitted. “Not when there’s still so much I can’t recall.”

“You did everything that needed to be done.”

“I should have waited.”

“That wasn’t feasible and you know it. The information had to be released and you were the only one who could do it.”

“I looked shaken and rattled, apparently,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“You looked like anyone would have if they’d watched the leader of the free world nearly get assassinated and had some bullets come their way in the bargain.” Danny laid a hand on her cheek. “You’ve got to stop fighting this impulse to self-critique, CJ, especially in a crisis. You did everything you knew how to do and you did it admirably. Give yourself credit for a job well done instead of kicking yourself over every mistake you think you made.”

“It’s a reflex, can’t help it.”

“Well, work on fighting it, okay?” Danny’s hand moved up and into her hair. “Have something to eat, have some painkillers, and I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep. If you’re really lucky I’ll rub your back.”

“Mmmm, that sounds amazing.”

“I’m an amazing guy, what can I say?” He leaned in a little closer. “I’m also really glad to see your lovely face. Do you mind if I kiss you?”

“I’d love it if you kissed me,” she whispered, happy to fall into the pressure and warmth of his mouth on hers. She gripped the back of his neck to hold him to her longer and the kiss stretched out further, sank in deeper, until they were both overwhelmed with it.

Danny rested his forehead against hers and let their fingers twine together.

“Hold tight to me,” he whispered, unknowingly mirroring Toby’s words of so many hours before. “I’m not going to let you fall."

END


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